The parents were already milling around the accoutrement-free coffee urn when Wendy entered. She rushed over, making her apologies as she put out the various coffee-companion products. Millie Hanover, the HSA president, the mother who always had the perfect after-school arts and crafts activity on well-scheduled playdates, quietly scowled her disapproval. In contrast, the fathers were extra-forgiving of Wendy’s tardiness. A little too forgiving, in fact. This was part of the reason Wendy wore the blouse buttoned high, the jeans not too tight, the not-too-flattering glasses on, the hair up. She never engaged the married men in extended conversations. Nev. Ah. Let them call her stuck-up or a bitch, but that was, in her view, better than a flirt, harlot, or worse. The wives in this town treated her with enough suspicion, thank you very much. On nights like this, she was tempted to don a T-shirt that read, “Really, I Have No Interest in Stealing Your Husband.”
The main topic of conversation was college; more specifically, whose child had gotten and not gotten into what schools. Some parents bragged, some joked, and, Wendy’s personal favorite, some performed “spin” like postdebate politicians, suddenly singing the praises of the “safety” school as though it were better than their original first choice. Or maybe she was being uncharitable. Maybe they were just trying to make the best out of their disappointment.
The bell mercifully sounded, jarring Wendy back to her own school days, and everyone headed into the campus center. One booth invited parents to post speed-limit signs that read, PLEASE DRIVE SLOWLY—WE ♥ OUR CHILDREN, which, she guessed, was effective, though the implication seemed to be that you, the driver, don’t really love yours. Another handed out window decals letting neighbors know that this house was indeed “Drug-Free,” which was nice, if not superfluous, in a “Baby on Board” obvious way. There was a booth run by the International Institute for Alcohol Awareness and its campaign against parents hosting drinking parties called “Not in Our House.” Still another booth passed out drinking-pledge contracts. The teen pledges never to drive drunk or get in a car with someone who’s been drinking. The parent, in turn, agrees that the teen can call at any hour to be picked up.
Wendy found a seat toward the back. An overly friendly father with a sucked-in gut and game-show-host smile sat next to her. He gestured toward the booths. “Safety overkill,” he said. “We’re so overprotective, don’t you think?”
Wendy said nothing. The man’s frowning wife took the seat next to him. Wendy made sure to say hello to the frowning wife, introducing herself and saying that she was Charlie’s mother, studiously avoiding eye contact with the antisafety Guy Smiley.
Principal Pete Zecher took the podium and thanked everyone for coming during this “very difficult week.” There was a moment of silence for Haley McWaid. Some had wondered why tonight hadn’t been postponed, but the school activity calendar was so overwhelmingly crowded there were simply no other free dates. Besides, how long do you wait? Another day? Another week?
So, after another awkward moment or two had passed, Pete Zecher introduced Millie Hanover, who excitedly announced that this year’s Project Graduation theme would be “Superheroes.” In short, Millie explained in long, they would decorate the middle school gymnasium to look like various comic-book places. The Bat-cave. Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. The X-Men’s X-Mansion or whatever it was called. The Justice League of America’s headquarters. Past years had seen the school decorated in Harry Potter theme, in the mode of the TV show Survivor (maybe that was more than a few years ago, Wendy thought now), even the Little Mermaid.
The idea behind Project Graduation was to give graduates a safe place to party after both the prom and commencement activities. Buses brought the students in, and all chaperones stayed outside. No drinking or drugs, of course, though in past years, some teens had sneaked them in. Still, with the chaperones on hand and buses providing transportation, Project Graduation seemed a great alternative to old-fashioned partying.
“I would love to recognize my hardworking committee chairs,” Millie Hanover said. “When I call your name, please stand.” She introduced her decorating chair, her beverage chair, her food chair, her transportation chair, her publicity chair, each standing to a smattering of applause. “For the rest of you, please volunteer. We can’t do this without you, and it’s a wonderful way to help make your child’s graduation experience a positive one. Let’s remember that this is for your children and you shouldn’t rely on others.” Millie’s voice could have been more patronizing, but it was hard to imagine how. “Thank you for listening. The sheets are out for sign-up.”
Principal Zecher next introduced Kasselton police officer Dave Pecora, the town safety commissioner, who proceeded to give the lowdown on the dangers associated with postprom, postgraduation parties. He talked about how heroin was making a comeback. He talked about pharm parties, where kids steal prescription drugs from their homes, put them in a big bowl, and partake in experimentation. Wendy had wanted to do a story about those last year, but she couldn’t find any real-world examples, just anecdotal evidence. One DEA official told her that pharm parties were more likely urban myth than reality. Officer Pecora continued to warn against the dangers of underage drinking: “Four thousand kids per year die of alcohol overdose,” though he didn’t say whether that was worldwide or just the USA or what age those kids might be. He also reiterated the fact that “no parent is doing his kid a favor” by hosting a drinking party. With a stern look, he cited specific cases in which hosting adults were convicted of manslaughter and served jail time. He actually started describing the prison experience in some detail—like the parental version of Scared Straight.
Wendy surreptitiously checked the clock, again like when she was actually in school. Nine thirty. Three thoughts kept running through her head. One, she wanted to get out of here and see what was up with the suddenly cryptic Phil Turnball. Two, she should probably sign up for some committee or another. Even though she was dubious about this whole Project Graduation—part of it seeming like yet another way we cater to our child’s every whim, part of it seeming more about the parents than the kids—it would be unfair, per Millie’s condescending comment, to make others do all the work for something in which Charlie would partake.
And third, maybe most, she couldn’t help but think about Ariana Nasbro and how alcohol and driving killed John. She couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps Ariana Nasbro’s parents should have attended one of these over-the-top orientations, if maybe all of this apparent safety overkill would indeed save a life during the next few weeks, so that some other family wouldn’t have to deal with what she and Charlie had.